A slow dance.
Explosions in the sky.
A warm night.
Figures.
Couples.
Our faces buried.
Her hair.
Her touch.
Her warmth.
Our bodies in motion.
A slow dance.
It isn't happening, and it never did. Dreams I've had that were so real I can wake up happy. Wake up happy and revel in the soft mists before fully waking. I want it more than words can wield the matter, I wake up and it's all I can do not to cry out in grief at the loss of those moments of sleep. Those moments of happiness, understanding, clarity. When we would sit opposite and talk through it all. Why this, why that. I feel it too.
Does she feel it too?
Did we talk through it all?
It's all I can do. . .
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